London Calling

Thank you to the many people that provided feedback and some editing. You know who you all are.

*****

I had arrived in London, bleary eyed after my nonstop flight. Fortunately, I had traveled light for my conference and customs was a breeze. As I waited in the taxi line, my phone buzzed.

"What will your room number be?"

My face got flushed and I let out a deep sigh. I had hoped the other people in line hadn't noticed. It was that instant flutter of anticipation, the rush before the touch, so to speak. I had been waiting for this - leaving behind the routine existence of work, teaching, parenting, being a wife. And best - or worst - of all, he knew it.

------

After months of shameless flirting, a work trip was bringing me to London. Neutral territory for me. My sexual Switzerland, if you will. I had met Andrew virtually. He was one of three other collaborators on a journal article we had all worked on together. The banter was instant, and likely unprofessional. But he made me laugh, had smart retorts for my input in the piece, and it didn't hurt that he had these eyes that just made me melt. During our many boring academic video conferences before publication, people would be talking and I would just think about those green eyes on me in his office. Nevermind that the rivalry between his LSE heritage and my Ivy employer made me want to make a mess of his office for some reason.

Andrew and I had been chatting about non-work related topics for many weeks and I let it slip that I was stopping through London on my way to a conference in Berlin. I felt the pregnant pause during the conversation in the pit of my stomach.

"Shall we meet, do you think?" He messaged.

"I'm not so sure that's a smart idea," I responded, indicating that while it may not be smart, I did want to. I ran my forefinger across my lips, wondering what his finger would feel like.

"I'd like to," He responded quickly.

"Same. It's just probably not wise, given our respective...situations." I typed.

The exchange continued, where we discussed the merits of at least having coffee. I knew from previous conversations that he preferred beer and he knew that I preferred whiskey.

When I walked the conversation back, Andrew did not push. He had always known the proper response before. He knew the longer I waited to decide, the more I would want it.

The evening following our exchange, I couldn't sleep. It had been a while - ages, in fact - since I felt that ache between my legs for a specific touch. The kind of urgent groping you experience at the beginning of a long-awaited encounter. I flipped back through some of our more memorable email exchanges, landing on the first real flirty one. He simply replied, "good girl" to one of my comments on our article. Like he was testing the waters. From then, his notes were filled with smart innuendo that gave me that ache. He has provided me a citation resource for the article, with the body of the email simply stating, "You should always tell me what you need." Conversely, when I made a typographical error in one of the drafts, Andrew quipped a simple tisk, tisk. Once it began, I couldn't get enough. That was the dangerous part, professionally and personally. I'm sure that added to my desire.

I ran my hand over my panties as I flipped through the development of our exchanges. 'You don't ignore chemistry like this,' I thought to myself. I decide it was enough and picked up my phone. It was late here, early there with the five-hour time difference.

"OK," I wrote to him.

I saw the infamous typing bubble appear and waited. And waited. Maybe Andrew had changed his mind?

"Good girl," he responded.

I drifted off to sleep, pleased with the finality of my decision. I had never been unfaithful before, nor had I planned on it. This trip offered me a chance to take a pause from the mundane. I slept well.

***

The days before my trip dragged on. The anticipation made it brutal, actually. I filled what little free time I had with extra visits to the campus gym, because I thought it couldn't hurt. A quick visit to the waxer, a manicure, and fresh hair cut were on the menu as well. It helped fill the time and I liked knowing I was making myself look nice for him.

I'd never considered myself unattractive but also didn't consider myself attractive. Or sexy. I'd spent a career avoiding my femininity so as to create a level playing field among myself and my male colleagues, likely at the expense of my sex appeal. When I was younger, I had liked dressing up and wearing make-up. I found it empowering to make a man turn his head. But when you're an assistant professor at a prestigious institution, you try to fly just enough above the radar to get a permanent job offer. And that's what I did.

A few nights before my trip, after a post-gym shower, I took a look at myself. Something I hadn't done for a while, between my indifference and lack of time. I had cut off an inch of my brown hair, accentuating the loose curls further with the reduced weight at the ends. I thought how I didn't really look my age. In my head, 36 was supposed to look older. Or maybe I just didn't see it. Well shaped eyebrows do wonders to make you look younger. My naturally olive-toned skin was smooth, and I rarely wore make up. I was always happy with my long, dark eyelashes that accentuated my eyes and my plump lips that rarely saw a swipe of color.

I had recently become pleased with my figure, realizing not only the power it was capable of upon becoming a mother, but the time I was afforded in my new job to visit the gym had been paying off. I saw my body as a work in progress. The soft curve of the undersides of my breasts were lovely, I thought to myself. And my ass. It made up for the stomach yet to fully rebound from the trappings of adulthood, but it was getting there. I had worked rather hard to achieve this firm, rounded rear that lead to strong thighs. The more I looked at myself - really looked at myself - the more I worried I wouldn't be enough for Andrew. I wondered what his expectations were beyond a clever quip.

Packing for my trip the morning of my flight was an interesting endeavor. Between my conservative suits for work meetings, I placed a variety of undergarments for my two days in London. Lace. Satin. Mesh overlay. A variety of goodies from my drawer that was rarely opened any longer. I had no idea what Andrew would like or not like, and the desire to please him only grew the closer I came to my trip.

While packing, I looked over at my phone. An email had come through from Andrew. At first, I felt this punch to the gut like he was going to back out. The body of the email, however, suggested otherwise.

Charlotte:

I cannot stop counting down the hours until you arrive. Please let me know your room number when you land. I've taken the liberty of leaving a box for you at check in. I hope you won't mind.

Safe travels, and see you soon,

A

I finished packing, left directions for the babysitter and my husband tacked to the fridge, and said my goodbyes. A twinge of guilt ran through me, but it had taken years to end up in this place, where passion turned in to platonic pleasantries between our actual responsibilities. I was certain my own husband, a frequent business traveler himself, had his own dalliances to satisfy a need.

"It is what it is," I thought to myself as I closed the door behind me and got in to the Uber for the airport.

-----

The flight to London was torturous, my brain alternating between aroused and anxious at the same time. Like I said, the rush before the touch. I noticed at random times during the flight as I tried to read my book that my nipples were stiff against my bra, or that my panties clung to me closely due to the wetness acting like a magnet. I caught myself on more than one occasion running my fingertips over my collar bone and along the rim of my sweater. I was ready.

Once I got beyond customs and my phone buzzed with the text from Andrew, that's when the real butterflies kicked in.

"What will your room number be?" The text asked.

"I'll let you know when I check in," I responded, my grin apparent to anyone that happened to see. I had this dirty secret only Andrew and I shared, and it was all the more erotic.

The taxi drove from the airport to the hotel, somewhere in the West End. A place I likely wouldn't leave for almost two days. At this point in my life, all of these hotels look and feel the same. I grabbed my bag and went to check in.

"Room 813." I texted back.

My heart briefly raced, so I decided to wash up and change in to fresh clothing. Just then, there was a knock at the door. "It couldn't be him already," I thought.

It was reception. Andrew had indeed left a box for me to receive upon check in. I tipped the young man who brought it to my room and took the box to my bed. I opened the card before I opened the box.

Charlotte:

I know you're a good girl and that sometimes, deep down, you need to be the dirty girl instead. Be a good dirty girl for me and put this on. Leave a key for me at reception and I'll be up soon.

A

An audible mixture of gasp and moan escaped my lips and I undid the ribbon of the box. Once I pulled apart the tissue paper, a gorgeous lingerie set awaited me: a black lace bra with a deep plunge, matching lace panties, a garter, and thigh highs that were so luxuriously soft I couldn't stop touching them.

"So this is what he likes," I noted. A bookish man with an assertive streak. I ran down to reception and asked them to hold a key for my guest, as I wasn't sure I would be available to let him in, and they obliged.

Back in the room, I took a shower and made sure to do a proper job shaving my legs. I needed him to want every inch of me. I blow dried my hair so the curls were almost gone and pinned it up. I swiped moisturizer on, a little lip gloss, and put on the beautiful lingerie Andrew had provided - much nicer than I had packed. I slipped on the panties, hooked the bra, and arranged the garter belt and stockings just so. I needed to be as close to perfect as I could get for him.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and couldn't believe this was me. In a hotel room patiently awaiting a liaison with a stranger. It wasn't me, but I felt more me than I had in a while. My ass looked phenomenal, and my breasts were in all their glory in the bra. More than a handful, they were, but not overly so. I wondered where these undergarments had been my whole adult life.

Waiting for the door to open was agony, so I decided to put on the bathrobe that the hotel provided and pour some minibar whiskey. While I stood there pouring the delicious caramel-colored liquid over ice cubes, the door opened and I froze. I heard it lock.

"Charlotte, stay there," he said.

That was the first time I had heard Andrew's voice in person. Until this moment, he had been a work colleague across an ocean that chatted me up over work video conferences, emails, and the like. I really had no idea what to expect. Regardless, I could feel him moving towards me and my nipples instantly become stiff against the black lace fabric he had provided.

I felt Andrew's hand gently slide up my back over the fabric of the robe.

"Why is this on, Charlotte?" Andrew asked in a stern manner.

"I was chilly," I lied.

"I didn't say you should have this on, so you need to remove it," he said.

I moved my hands to untie it before I was stopped.

"On second thought, open those window curtains first, and then remove the robe" he told me, alluding to the windows next to the minibar.

I hesitated briefly, but figured 'fuck it' and did as I was told.

I still hadn't turned around when I removed my robe, feeling it slide down by back.

"Oh my, I did select the perfect items for you. Your ass...Charlotte..." he trailed off. "Turn around for me."

There was something about the properness of Andrew's accent with the naughty nature of this encounter that gave me a thrill. And then I turned around and saw him. The green eyes that I had spent a number of hours thinking about. But everything else was unreasonably gorgeous, making me self-conscious of my own features. The descriptor classic fit him. Taller than me, fair complexion, defined jaw that I immediately wanted to get my lips on, slim but not feminine, nice hands, and a devious smirk. He was dressed in a well-pressed, well-fitting suit with a tie, nothing like I had seen him in during our work video conferences.

I had a very difficult time looking at him in the eyes and my head hung a bit low because of it.

"Look at me," he told me.

I lifted my head, but still could not look him in the eyes.

"Charlotte, I said look at me," he said more assertively.

When I did, it was as if I'd been waiting forever for him to see me. To really see me.

"Come over here," he demanded.

I did as I was told.

"My dear, you are perfect," he whispered to me so closely that his breath gave me goosebumps. "I've spent hours thinking of ways that you can please me. You do desire to please me, right Charlotte?"

Considering how outspoken and independent I am, the fact that it was hard to find words was disconcerting.

"Yes," I said softly.

"I didn't quite hear you," he said in the same whisper, so close to my ear I was certain he could hear my heart pounding. "You do desire to please me, correct."

"Yes," I stammered. "I do."

"You do what?" He asked

"Yes, I desire to please you, Andrew," I managed to get out. Words that have never escaped my lips now being said to essentially a stranger even if didn't feel like a stranger.

"That's a good girl," he said. "Now remove your panties. Slowly. I want to watch. Leave everything else on."

I looked him in the eyes and began to slide my hands up my stocking-covered thighs to the sides of my panties and slid my fingertips between the fabric and my hips. His eyes on me, inspecting me, felt both violating and thrilling at the same time. I pulled them down all the way and stepped out of them, leaving them on the carpeted floor next to me.

"That's very good, Charlotte," he affirmed. "Now, be a good girl and pour me a drink."

I turned around and walked towards the minibar. While I poured his whiskey, neat of course, I felt his eyes traveling up by body, examining me and the way I moved. The thrill was intense. Electric. His watching continued as I walked back to him, drink in hand.

When he took the drink, his fingers intertwined with mine, the first actual contact between Andrew and me. It took my breath away. He took a long sip of the drink while staring at me, possibly pondering what as next.

"Now, sit there," he said as he pointed to an armchair across the room from the bed. "And drape one leg over each arm of the chair."

I didn't move right away, as I didn't understand what he was getting at.

"Charlotte, I told you to sit there," he pointed again. "You're going to touch yourself for me."

I walked over, my cheeks and chest beet red with embarrassment as I'd never done such a thing. But I did as I was told, and sat down. First my left stocking-clad leg over one arm, then my right over the other. I felt completely exposed. Completely vulnerable. That alone sent a thrill through my body. Embarrassment and arousal, two emotions that seemed to cause great internal conflict yet somehow made me want to do this even more.

Andrew casually sat at the edge of the bed across from me, watching, while still sipping on his drink. He loosened his tie, but otherwise stayed fully clothed, seeming as though he were preparing for a performance.

I slid one hand across the top of the bra trim, teasing my own breasts. His eyes followed my fingers as they slid over one mound, down my cleavage, and back up over the other mound. I was certain he could see my hands shaking. My hand made its way down my stomach, enjoying the feel of the lace garter belt as they made their way between my legs. I was keenly aware of the grip the stocking had around my mid-thighs, and the way the garters dug in to my skin in this position.

Using my right hand, I began to slowly tease myself, sliding my middle finger between my pussy lips, the rest of my fingers relaxed. That first stroke made me release a big sigh, as if my body was acknowledging there was no turning back. The wetness was immediate and with the silence in the room, it was also audible. I looked over at Andrew while he sipped his drink and watched me.

My fingers began what could be described as their typical motions -- one finger down my slit, then back up to circle my clit, but it felt considerably better than it did when I was home by myself. In fact, it began to feel really good and the sound of my quickening breath filled the room. I added a second finger, sliding down, dipping gently in, and back up pressing against my clit. The more turned on I was, the easier it was to look Andrew in the eyes. The bulge in his grey suit pants was extremely evident, indicating I was doing well at what I'd been instructed to do.

"Don't stop what you're doing," Andrew said as he stood up.

He walked over to me, kneeling down next to me, his face close to mine.

"Have you any idea how sexy you are like this?" He asked rhetorically. "Performing for me like the naughty girl I knew you were."

He slid his fingers up my arm as it flexed with the rhythm it found while I was fucking myself. Up my shoulders, around my collar bone, and back down. I closed my eyes and did not mind the amount of noise that was escaping my lips. My senses were in overdrive. His hand then moved to my thighs, his fingers grazing the silky fabric of the stockings, and then up further on the inside of my thighs. I could no longer focus on my hands so I stopped, focusing on the sensations he was creating with his fingers.

"This feels good, does it?" He asked politely as his fingers got even closer to my pussy lips.

"Yes," I replied, my head leaning back a bit in the chair, enjoying every single touch.

"Tell me," he commanded.

"Yes, this feels good." I responded, snapping out of my trance.

He knelt down more, his face closer to mine, his breath warm and sweet on my cheek. He said nothing as he moved his hand as high as it could go, two fingers gently sliding all the way up my slit. He brought his now-wet fingers to his lips.

"Even better than I had hoped..." he whispered in my ear, returning his hand back to my waiting cunt.

He used his index and ring finger to spread my labia, and circled the opening of my wet cunt, teasing me. A low gasp escaped from my mouth.

"What's that, Charlotte?" Andrew asked, again rhetorically, but I could see the smirk.

He continued in earnest, soon sliding his two long fingers into my pussy, just not as far in as I had hoped, and I reflexively pushed my hips to meet his fingers.

"No, no, Charlotte," he admonished. "Your pleasure is not for you to take, but for me to give. But don't worry, patience be of a virtuous nature."

He continued slipping his slick fingers in and out of me, his lips occasionally finding their way to my jaw line or shoulder. The palm of his hand was resting firmly on my mound, putting pressure on my clit and surrounding nerve endings while he dipped his fingers and out of me. The rhythm was perfect and I was entranced.

Andrew soon lowered himself and shifted the angle of his fingers so they'd more easily curl up. With two fingers inside of me, he kept his thumb pressed against my clit and began to do the 'come hither' motion along the anterior wall of my cunt. The quiet room was again filled with the sounds of my wetness, more rapidly manipulated by his fingers than my own. I did nothing to hide my whimpering.